Irreversible Damage
by namelessamelie
Summary: Pressured by his parents to form advantageous relationships with war heroes, Draco attempts to befriend Hermione. In the process, he finds that there is much he'd like to forget. / COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

_The Malfoy name._

It was all Draco's parents could talk about these days.

As in: "_The Malfoy name has been besmirched!_" or "_How would that reflect on the Malfoy name, Draco?_" or, most often, "_We must restore the Malfoy name to its former glory through any means necessary._"

His father's reputation had been damaged beyond repair in the war, so the task of dragging the disgraced family name out of the mud fell, naturally, to Draco. As a first step in re-establishing the Malfoys as part of respectable society, Lucius used his connections to secure him a job at the Ministry.

But, with the minimal currency their name now held in the wizarding world, that alone was not enough. Overnight, the Malfoys had become social pariahs. Draco's parents repeatedly urged him to make friends at his place of work—new friends—not the kind he had known all his life; but the kind that, in a different time, his parents would have warned him against associating too closely with. Blood traitors. Mudbloods. The new _war heroes_.

He had spent his entire Hogwarts career avoiding (when not terrorizing) them, only to now be told that they were the key to his future.

It was funny how things turned out sometimes.

It was this pressure from his parents that had forced Draco into a menial (and embarrassingly unimportant) job at the Ministry as an Obliviator, where he was expected to be cloyingly _nice_ to all his co-workers—something that Malfoys simply did not do. It was what had driven him to, in a fit of desperation, resort to extending a lunch invitation to Neville Longbottom (an invitation that was promptly and humiliatingly rejected). And now, in what was surely the worst of these developments, it had led him to the corridor in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement where he was now standing.

Biting back his pride at having to forsake the pureblood values to which he'd adhered so strongly for the first two decades of his life, Draco stood outside Hermione Granger's office and tried to summon the courage to knock. His heart was pounding so fast that he could feel its vibrations in his throat, pulsing through his insides as blood coursed through his veins; his palms uncomfortably clammy with sweat as he curled his hands into tight fists in order to keep them from trembling.

She'd left her office door slightly ajar, and after several painful minutes of trying—and failing—to imagine a worse fate, he finally took a brave step forward and knocked lightly before pushing the door all the way open.

Granger was sitting at her desk, engrossed in a memo, when her eyes snapped up and then widened in blank surprise.

"Hello," said Draco, swallowing nervously.

Her eyes swept over him, and he could practically feel the gears of her over-developed mind churning as she attempted to puzzle him out. "Hi," she said slowly.

"How are you?" he asked politely, and she glanced around the room as though searching for whoever had him under the Imperius.

"Good," she replied carefully. Then she waited for him to speak, watching him with caution and remaining very, very still—as if the slightest movement could trigger some sort of dangerous response from him.

"I just started working here today," he said, struggling to keep his voice airy and casual while he internally cursed the shame of his own existence. "In International Magical Cooperation."

"I see," she said, her voice now more openly confused. "Is there—can I help you with something, or…?"

"I just wanted to say hello," he replied, attempting to maintain eye contact with her and failing miserably. "Since we're co-workers now."

Her eyebrows shot up as she stared at him. "Oh," she said simply. "Well… hello."

Draco could not remember a moment in his life when he'd been more mortified. A few of her co-workers had gathered in the hallway behind him to watch, and he could feel his cheeks flaming with heat as they began to whisper to one another.

"I guess we'll be seeing each other quite often," he said, willing himself to press onward. He had come this far; there was no use turning back now. Forcing himself to remember his father's words, he attempted an unnatural smile.

"Yes," she said, still looking at him strangely, "I suppose we will."

He stammered out a goodbye before turning back towards the lifts, and her co-workers wasted no time in rushing past him into her office for all the gossipy details.

"What was that about?" he could hear them asking.

"I've no idea," said Granger. "We weren't exactly friends at school."

* * *

He had decided to start with Granger because the idea of reaching out to her somehow seemed less daunting than trying to soften up Potter or Weasley. She'd always been the type inclined towards forgiveness—less angry, more generous in spirit—an easier target overall.

As it turned out, he'd been right. She was never impolite to him (which he was fairly certain Potter and Weasley would have been, to put it mildly), and while she was clearly wary of his motives, she appeared to be doing her best to humor him as civilly as she could (he could hardly picture the moron twins extending him the same courtesy). And so, faced with relentless questioning on the subject by his father, Draco worked hard at his task, initiating conversations with Granger and building a rapport on the foundation of what was, admittedly, a rather shaky history.

But Rome was not built in a day, and old wounds required time to heal: a concept which his father seemed to have difficulty understanding.

So when he asked over breakfast—yet again—how things were going on that particular front, Draco mistakenly assumed that giving him the answer he wanted to hear—whether it was true or not—would be the fastest way to silence him.

Instead, he achieved quite the opposite.

Upon hearing that their relationship had developed into something resembling friendship, Lucius gave a slow, approving smile. "Excellent," he said. "Then you'll have no problem asking her to your boss' dinner party next weekend."

Draco froze. His fork dangled in the air, paused on route to his open mouth.

When he made no attempt to close it, his father went on. "This dinner is the first time that any of the Malfoys have been invited into polite society since the war, which means that how you behave will have a tremendous impact on people's opinion of the Malfoy na—"

"I've already asked Astoria."

"Un-invite her, then."

Draco began to sputter, "You can't be—surely you're—"

"It's unfortunate, but you'll have to make your excuses to her and take Hermione Granger instead."

"Are you _joking_?"

"The family's future is at stake, Draco."

"You want me to cancel on Astoria? And tell her what? 'Oh, terribly sorry, but I've decided to take _Hermione bloody Granger_ instead?'"

Lucius set down his knife, shooting an icy glare in Draco's direction. "This is a crucial event," he said slowly, in a tone so sharp it could have cut steel, "at which countless important wizards will be present; and who you take as your plus-one reflects directly on who you are as a person—"

"How am I going to explain this to her?"

"You'll tell her that you can't take her and that you're very sorry! Your unimportant, _childish_ attempts at romance can wait!"

"Lucius," Narcissa interrupted chidingly, but he ignored her.

"This is a rare opportunity for the family, and we must take full advantage," he continued, practically shouting. "If you falter for even an instant, Draco, a chance like this may never come again!"

With a sympathetic look in her son's direction, Narcissa began to say, "Astoria Greengrass is a perfectly—"

"_Astoria Greengrass is a lovely girl_, but she's a pureblood and a Slytherin, and it won't do Draco's image any favors to be associated with—"

Draco let out a disbelieving laugh. "Oh, so now I'm supposed to cast aside the pureblood Slytherin friends that I've cared for my entire life? And who have cared for me?"

Lucius' voice dropped to the menacing, quietly threatening hiss that had so terrified Draco throughout his childhood. "I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation, Draco. For the first time in centuries, the very _honor_ of this family is in question, and—"

"And whose fault is that?" snapped Draco.

The minute he said it, he knew he'd made a mistake.

His father's eyes narrowed to slits; and his mother's fingers flew to the pearls around her neck, clutching at them fearfully as she watched her husband's reaction.

"You'll go with Hermione Granger," said Lucius, in a voice so low he could barely hear it. "End of discussion."

* * *

If Draco never saw the corridor outside of Granger's office again, he would die a happy man.

He had waited until the week right before the dinner to ask, in the hope that putting it off until then would give her time to make other plans and force her to decline. But when the week arrived and he finally found himself awkwardly mumbling out an invitation in that hateful corridor, Granger said nothing about a prior engagement.

Instead, she stared at him blankly, looking positively bewildered, before saying, "Me? You want _me_ to go as your—as your date?"

He grimaced at the word—he'd deliberately used 'guest' instead—but nodded nonetheless. "I'm supposed to bring someone, and I thought that, well, maybe…" He trailed off lamely.

Her eyes, cautious but not unkind, scanned him as though searching for answers. Then she asked bluntly, "Why are you asking me?"

_Why?_ Unprepared for this sort of direct questioning, Draco panicked for a moment before his instincts kicked in and he lied, "I don't have anyone else to ask."

The tactic worked. Her gaze softened somewhat, and she looked at him with an unfamiliar expression as she said, "All right. I'll go."

"You will?" he asked in disbelief.

"Why not?" she said kindly, before turning to leave.

It was only later, when he was remembering the incident in the privacy of his own office, that Draco realized to his horror that the expression he had failed to recognize was _pity._

* * *

As he left the wizarding world on yet another case to Obliviate a traumatized Muggle, Draco wondered idly whether it would be possible to invent a way to Obliviate thousands of people at once. An entire city, even. _If he could just wipe the collective memory of the whole of wizarding Britain_, he thought longingly, _if he could make them all forget_—well, it would certainly solve all his problems. At the very least, he wouldn't need to jeopardize his relationships by begging Hermione Granger to escort him out on the town. It was a frequent daydream of his: as someone who spent his days modifying others' memories, it was easy to fantasize about what it would be like to Vanish the war from everyone's awareness—including his own.

He cast his wishful thinking aside as he entered the bank where a member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad was holding the Muggle in question captive.

"Ariadne," he said, giving his co-worker a curt nod of acknowledgment. "How bad is it?"

"The usual—mumbling about wands and people popping out of thin air. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Draco took a closer look at the man in the chair, who was currently shaking his head violently as he battled his restraints. "No," the Muggle whispered, seemingly to himself, "it isn't possible. It just isn't possible!"

"All right," he said wearily, "let's get this over with."

With a jerk of his head, the man turned to look up at Draco, as if he had just noticed his presence. "Who are you?" he cried out in alarm, as Draco took aim with his wand.

"Someone you won't remember," he said, before breathing the word that would erase himself from the man's mind forever.

* * *

Draco was almost pleased at the murmurs of surprise when he arrived at the dinner party with Granger in tow. The entire room was staring in their direction—an experience that was not unfamiliar to him—and it gave him a certain thrill to know that he had caught them all off guard. In fact, for the first night in months, he felt as though his confidence had been restored: he was finally _Draco Malfoy_ again, and he commanded attention wherever he went. As the other guests whispered to one another about the nature of their relationship, Draco guided Granger over to his boss with the casual elegance of aristocracy and made a formal introduction where he knew none was necessary.

"Of course I know exactly who this is!" Plumsbury said delightedly. "Welcome, Miss Granger—I had no idea you were so well-acquainted with Malfoy here—"

"We went to school together," she replied, with a smile both polite and slightly uncomfortable.

"Well, it is certainly an honor to have you here at our little get-together. You must let me introduce you to my wife—oh, Mathilda? Come meet Hermione Granger!"

By the time they were seated (after Plumsbury's wife and friends had finally finished fawning over her), Draco was starting to feel entirely in his element. This was more like it: he was out at an exclusive gathering, dressed to the nines; and furthermore, there was a celebrity in attendance—a war hero—and _he_ had brought her. He was unstoppable. Tonight, he thought, would be the beginning of his return to the top—no one would leave him off their invite lists after this. Draco Malfoy was back.

And then he heard them.

Directly across the table were Brayden Fettersworth and Stella Hopkirk. Fettersworth was an old pureblood wizard who had once been a high-ranking Ministry official; he had been fired during the war for being a blood traitor. Hopkirk was a former nobody who had seized the opportunity to rise up in the ranks during the restructuring that followed Voldemort's demise. The two of them, along with a sleekly-dressed young wizard that Draco did not recognize, feigned speaking in hushed whispers—but their voices were loud enough to ensure that he could hear every word.

"It's completely unacceptable that they're allowing them back into the Ministry."

"Ridiculous, really."

"I mean, they're _murderers_."

"Should they even be allowed out on the street? It's a wonder they aren't all in Azkaban!"

"Well, most of them are, you know. But it seems the ones with money somehow managed to _slither_ right out of the Death Eaters and back to freedom."

"Still, it's distasteful that we have to see them out in polite society, don't you think? This is no place for monsters and criminals."

They were talking about him as if he weren't there—as if he weren't sitting at the same table as them, forced to listen to their hateful insults. Their words dripped with so much venom that it was a wonder he hadn't fallen over dead. He could imagine how much self-satisfaction it gave them to witness his impotent silence; and yet Draco, who was rarely ever at a loss for words, suddenly found himself unable to speak or even to move. He had never experienced something so degrading. All he could think was: _just a year ago, this could never have happened to us. Someone insulting the Malfoys like this, in public, would have been unthinkable._

Stella Hopkirk was just opening her mouth to add something scathing when someone cut her off.

"Excuse me," said a voice next to him, "but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation."

Shocked, he turned to look at Granger, but her eyes remained fixed across the table. "I also couldn't help but notice," she went on, "that you seemed to be referring to Draco."

Hopkirk and Fettersworth made no attempt to deny it, but the young wizard whom Draco could not place said weakly, "No, not at all—I'm afraid you've misunderstood—"

"I doubt that," Granger interrupted calmly. "And I just wanted to point out that anyone who was not imprisoned at the end of the war investigations was not imprisoned for good reason. In Draco's case, it so happens that he attempted to save Harry Potter's life. So unless you're comfortable openly questioning the validity of the Wizengamot's decisions, I'd advise you not to speak too loudly. I wouldn't want to broadcast my ignorance if I were you."

Draco nearly had to stop his jaw from hitting the floor.

The guests that she was addressing appeared equally speechless, for they said nothing in response; Fettersworth turned away in shame, and his two companions squirmed awkwardly in place, attempting to avoid her gaze and looking utterly humiliated. Granger's speech had attracted the attention of the entire table, and there was a tense moment of silence before she turned to Draco and said brightly, "This quail is _really_ excellent, don't you think?"

By the end of the night, Draco had to admit that his father had been right: Granger had been the ideal date. She had been a perfect trophy, and not only had she handled his embarrassment in a graceful manner, she had actually _defended_ him—and he could not think of a better person to have on his side in that particular argument. (Nor could he think of a witch who would have behaved as coolly in that situation.) It was no longer possible to deny the extent of the Malfoy family's fall from grace, and Hermione Granger, whether he liked it or not, was exactly what he needed.

As he escorted her to her front door, he struggled to find the words to express his gratitude and settled on:

"Thank you. You know, for earlier."

"It's nothing," she said simply, waving it off with one hand.

"No," he said, trying to sound sincere and having difficulty looking her directly in the eye, "it wasn't. You—you didn't have to do that, really."

She looked at him then, her eyes keen and appraising. "Now you know what it feels like to be on the outside."

Surprised, he glanced up at her to find a gaze that was neither warm nor unsympathetic. With a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, she bid him good night and disappeared into her flat.

* * *

Astoria, unsurprisingly, found out about his having taken Granger to the dinner and broke up with him. He'd known that it would have to happen sooner or later—he'd just hoped that it would have been later.

It hadn't been that serious—they'd only been dating for a couple months—but Draco had rather liked her, and he was starting to feel as though his world were crumbling around him. His father had always placed a great deal of pressure on his shoulders, but nothing could have prepared him for this particular burden. He wanted to laugh, really, thinking back on all the lectures his father had given him on the dangers of consorting with Mudbloods. How seriously he had taken those speeches! And how ridiculous they seemed now!

Everything about the war—everything he had suffered through, everything he had once been taught to believe in—had suddenly become utterly meaningless. He had been forced to fight for a cause because his father had espoused it; now he was being told to abandon it for the very same reasons. When Lucius went on and on about how important it was to redeem themselves, to make people forget their past, Draco wanted to scream at him: "Then why did we do any of it in the first place?"

His father, whom he had always looked up to—who had once seemed like such a grave figure of authority, like a heavy statue that could not be moved—suddenly seemed weightless and thoughtless, a fool that blew to and fro with the wind. If all the things we did in the war turned out to be a mistake, how do we know _this_ isn't?

Still, in a way, he was glad that he hadn't taken Astoria to that party: he would never have wanted her to see him disgraced like that in public.

* * *

The next time he saw Granger, _she_ showed up at _his_ office.

She had never sought him out before; so when he first saw her standing in his doorway, he wondered briefly whether he were hallucinating.

"I need your help with something," she said, after some hesitation.

He closed the file he'd been reading and tossed it aside. "What is it?" he asked, trying not to sound too eager.

"I was hoping that you might be willing to donate to a cause I support," she explained, speaking very quickly, as though afraid that he might cut her off if she slowed down for even one second. "There's this organization that funds werewolf research, and there's an event coming up that's meant to increase awareness about the need for a cure, and we're all supposed to try and bring in donors, and… well, I was hoping that you might be willing to help me out."

Draco had to fight back the urge to grimace at the mention of werewolves. He had never had much sympathy for them, but after his experience with Greyback during the war, it was his firm opinion that all of them ought to be locked up securely somewhere—if not executed en masse. But, knowing better than to offend Granger's bleeding-heart sensibilities, he gave a thoughtful nod and examined her carefully. She seemed embarrassed to be asking him for help, and it suddenly occurred to him that he might have been a desperate last resort.

Seeing an opportunity to gain her trust, he replied, "I'll do you one better."

She looked at him questioningly, and he went on, "I'm sure you need help organizing your event. I'll volunteer. In addition to making a donation, of course; I know that's what you _really_ want."

"Really?" she replied, somewhat disbelievingly. "You want to help raise awareness of werewolf issues?"

He shrugged innocently. "I've been through my share of misfortune. I know what it's like to be forced to be something you're not. And, as you pointed out last week, I know now what it's like to face that kind of prejudice from society." Even to his own ears, the words sounded so cheesy and heavy-handed that he practically had to keep himself from gagging as he heard himself say them, but a hunch told him that it was exactly the kind of over-earnest tripe that someone like Granger would eat up with a spoon. "Anyway, I'm willing to do my part to help."

She scrutinized him for a moment, appearing not to recognize this particular incarnation of Draco Malfoy, then nodded slowly. "Well, that's very generous of you."

"It's the least I can do," he said smoothly, trying to sound as sincere as possible.

Once she'd thanked him and left, he leaned back in his chair and groaned, full of new dread at the thought of all the work he was going to have to do for this stupid cause.

* * *

For the most part, Draco's friends mercifully chose not to comment on his newfound alliance with Granger—but mercy had never been something for which Pansy could be counted on.

So when she strode into their lunch with Blaise and Theo, her face twisted into a frown, eyes blazing in his direction, he knew he was about to suffer.

"Tell me it isn't true, Draco," she commanded.

Rolling his eyes at her all-too-typical melodramatic entrance, he picked up a piece of toast and went about buttering it nonchalantly.

"What isn't true?" asked Blaise, who apparently didn't share Draco's qualms about indulging Pansy's theatrics.

"I just heard that the real reason Astoria broke it off with Draco was that he took _Hermione Granger_ to Plumsbury's dinner party instead of her."

Both Theo and Blaise simultaneously averted their gaze, and Pansy let out a laugh of disbelief. "So it's true, then. And is it also true that you're working on the campaign for a werewolf cure with her?"

This particular piece of information Theo and Blaise had not known, and their eyes snapped back up to Draco.

"Are you serious?" asked Blaise.

"I can't believe you did that to Astoria," Pansy said angrily, ignoring Blaise entirely. "Daphne told me you _lied_ to her and said that you were sick, then left her to find out through the grapevine that she'd been ditched for a Mudblood."

"Don't say that word in public," hissed Draco. "I've got enough PR problems to deal with as it is."

"Is that why you're working on a sodding werewolf campaign?" Blaise interrupted, as though no explanation could be sufficient for such a shameful secret.

"Look," said Draco, suddenly furious at his friends' lack of sympathy, "none of you know what it's been like for me. None of _you_ have been shunted to the fringe of society because you and your father are notorious Death Eaters. Do you think _I'm_ happy about this? Hanging out with Granger? Wasting my time helping the filthy underbelly of the magical community? But this is the price I have to pay to re-enter privileged society, and it would be a lot easier if you all could at least _pretend_ to be more understanding about it!

"And," he added viciously, turning to face Pansy, "_I_ got dumped by Astoria. All right? _She_ dumped _me_. It isn't _my_ fault the relationship ended."

"I think it is," she replied coldly. "You humiliated her, taking another witch to such a high-profile event—and _Granger_, no less. It would have been bad enough if you'd taken someone pretty, but can you imagine how much it must have hurt her pride when she heard you'd taken a filthy Mud—"

Slamming his fist down on the table, Draco shouted, "_What did I say about using that word in public?_"

Theo gently reached out with one hand to restrain him, and for a moment, Pansy stared blankly at him in shock. Then, her expression morphing into a scowl, she sneered, "Defending your girlfriend, Draco? How valiant. But try not to cause a scene."

"Stop it, Pansy," Theo reprimanded quietly. To Draco's surprise, she obeyed, fuming in silence as she glared fiercely in his direction.

Draco found, however, that he had lost his appetite. Throwing his napkin onto the table, he snapped, "You know what, Pansy? If I have to _sleep_ with Granger to earn back the respect my family deserves, then so be it. And you can tell Daphne to go fuck herself."

Then, as Pansy gaped at him in disgust, he rose and stormed out of the restaurant without looking back.

* * *

The werewolf awareness event went off without a hitch. It was unfortunate that Granger's hobbies were as mind-numbingly idiotic as they were—Draco would certainly have preferred to get on her good side by joining her in a more enjoyable activity—but he gamely hid his distaste during the countless nights they spent together planning the fundraiser. He could never have guessed how much work Granger put into these little causes of hers, but after finding out firsthand, he swore to himself that he would make sure his toil did not go unrewarded.

Not long after racking up all those points, he finally found a chance to cash them in: the annual Ministry Ball. The ball was a highly public affair, and the who's who of wizarding society was always in attendance. Draco was lucky to be a Ministry employee—he was fairly certain he would not have been invited otherwise. Granger, on the other hand, was practically a guest of honor. She was sure to attract attention throughout the evening, and damned if Draco wasn't going to steal some of it for his own purposes.

He was single now, after all, and there was nothing standing in his way—so he approached her as soon as he could and asked, in his most charming tone of voice, whether she might accompany him as a friend. He made sure to ask weeks in advance, in order to ensure that Weasley or Longbottom or one of her equally repugnant friends didn't get there first; and, as he'd predicted, Granger proved unable to turn him down.

"As a friend," she repeated firmly, and he tried not to let her presumptuousness irritate him. _As if he could actually be interested in her in any other capacity._

He offered to pick her up, but she insisted that they meet at the Ministry before traveling to the party together.

"At the Ministry?" he asked in confusion.

"Yes, I'll want to stop by my office and check for memos anyway," she explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Draco gave a startled laugh. "Do you _ever_ stop working?"

With a small smile, she replied, "I promise not to work at the ball."

* * *

**A/N: This story will be posted in three parts.**

**Thanks for reading—and reviews are, of course, always appreciated! =)**


	2. Chapter 2

To Draco's mortification, Granger turned up wearing the wrong robes.

She looked surprisingly good—that wasn't the problem. Granger had always been able to clean up properly when she felt like it. But the robes she was wearing, while pretty, were simply _incorrect_. The girl had obviously never been taught proper wizarding attire.

The invitation had clearly stated _white lace_, as was appropriate for such a formal event, and Granger appeared to have taken this instruction quite literally: her dark red gown was adorned with a smattering of delicate white lace at the neckline, covering her décolletage. But as any true wizard would know, _white lace_ was not a reference to an actual color requirement; rather, it was an indication that a certain type of dress robes were to be worn at an event. And Granger had chosen a gown that, while formal enough, was distinctly _blue_ lace in style.

He should have prepared for this possibility. Never having hung out much with Mudbloods before, he simply hadn't thought of it. But how could he have expected her to be well-versed in wizarding etiquette? He deeply regretted not having personally helped her pick out something to wear.

She smiled radiantly when she saw him from across the lobby, and he struggled not to show his horror at her choice of wardrobe.

"You look nice," she said pleasantly.

"So… do you," he managed to get out. "The red suits you."

When she took his arm, he asked, "Didn't you want to stop by your desk?"

"I've been here all day," she admitted, and he laughed.

The instant they arrived at the ball, Draco felt the full weight of just how drastically wizarding society's priorities had changed in the blink of an eye. No one, it seemed, gave a second glance to Granger's embarrassing fashion faux pas. Instead, photographers were ignoring purebloods left and right in order to chase down the famous war heroes in attendance; when Granger stepped into view, they just about lost their heads. As Draco watched them snapping away, screaming her name, he remembered how photos of his father and mother had once been splashed across the pages of every paper the morning after the Ministry Ball. He recalled admiring those photographs as a child, watching eagerly as his parents, majestic in their matching robes and as composed as ever, turned to the camera and flashed the condescending smiles reserved for the masses by nobility.

Granger was clearly not inexperienced when it came to hordes of photographers begging her to glance in their direction. Smiling thinly, she turned her head coolly from left to right, giving them what they wanted and not a single shot more. Draco felt a mixture of glee and annoyance at her fame: he was pleased to be there with someone who was certain to make the papers the next day, and yet he could not help feeling that she did not _deserve_ any of it. Who was she, after all? A swotty nobody who had happened to befriend Harry Potter in their first year.

Nonetheless, he knew exactly how to play the moment. Releasing his arm from her grasp, he stepped aside, pretending to be embarrassed. When she looked back at him in surprise, he offered her a smile that he hoped would convey his feigned willingness to watch from the sidelines while she posed for pictures.

"What are you doing?" Granger asked in alarm, and he gave a falsely modest shrug.

"It's not me they want," he said, "it's you."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, but he shook his head.

"They don't want me in the photos; I'd just ruin them." And then, in an extremely deliberate display of sadness, he averted his gaze and moved further away from her.

For a moment, he feared that she would let him go—that she would not protest—but it was Granger, and there was nothing that witch loved so well as a creature in need.

Stepping closer to him and grabbing his arm, she said, "You're my date, Draco, and I'm not going in without you."

She insisted that he stay by her side as they walked into the ball, and he tried not to gloat too much over the accomplishment of his goal as they stepped, together, into the fray. Blinded by photographers' flashes on every side, he adopted a calm, serious expression that he knew would look perfect in print; after all, he'd inherited his parents' photogenic looks. Bursts of light exploded all around them, reminding him of the fireworks he'd once seen in battle.

When they had finally made it past the press (and, had it been up to Draco, they would have walked just a little bit slower), he was faced with a new obstacle: Granger's friends. Weasley was with some witch Draco had never seen before, while Potter had brought Ginny Weasley; and with the exception of the witch he'd never met, they all turned stiff and awkward at the very sight of him. He suddenly found himself wondering what Granger had told them about him—how she had explained this to them.

As the Gryffindors chatted away, Draco glanced around the room, searching for familiar faces, and found one that he had not anticipated: Astoria.

He had not been prepared to see her. _Had she seen him?_ Did she know he was here with Granger? She had attended with Zacharias Smith, apparently, and while it was not an unthinkable match, he had never seen Smith as Astoria's type.

Suddenly flustered, he could not seem to stand still, until Granger reached out and placed a comforting hand on his arm. "Don't feel uncomfortable," she said softly, and he realized that she had misread his worried countenance.

"I think I'm going to get some air," he said hurriedly, taking the opportunity to excuse himself. "Do you mind if I step away for a bit?"

He rushed to find a waiter carrying a tray of champagne and quickly downed a glass, hoping some liquid courage would help him through the evening. When he returned to his date, he found her standing alone with Weasley.

"He's not a good person," Draco heard him say.

Granger made a vague gesture with one hand, saying something that Draco was too far away to hear. He inched closer just in time to hear Weasley's reply.

"I just want to make sure you know what you're doing," he said emphatically.

"Ron," she replied, "life is too short to refuse to forgive people."

* * *

Draco was mentioned in every single article about the Ministry Ball.

_Hermione Granger, a MLE employee best-known for her role in the Second War as a friend of Harry Potter, was escorted by Draco Malfoy, a former classmate and exonerated Death Eater._

_Hermione Granger arrived on the arm of redeemed Death Eater and Hogwarts classmate Draco Malfoy. The two have been linked romantically in the past._

_War hero Hermione Granger is pictured here wearing robes by an unknown designer. Her date was Draco Malfoy, former Hogwarts classmate and fellow Ministry employee._

Lucius was ecstatic.

"This is _perfect_," he cried, and Draco thought that he might never have seen his father so happy. "This is _exactly_ what we needed!"

Narcissa, who did not appear to be quite as overjoyed as her husband, looked quietly through the papers, scouring each publication for pictures of the ball.

"Did you see this one?" Lucius exclaimed. "Redeemed Death Eater. _Redeemed!_ You must continue with this, Draco. This is all going extremely well."

"Why does this article say that they've been linked romantically in the past?" asked Narcissa, sounding somewhat displeased. "What could they be referring to?"

"Probably Plumsbury's dinner," said Draco, through a mouthful of scone and marmalade.

"Who cares," replied Lucius, "as long as we're getting the headlines we want?"

* * *

The Muggle woman whom Draco had been assigned to Obliviate was remarkably calm when he arrived.

"You didn't restrain her yet?" he asked Ariadne in annoyance, and she shook her head.

"She's so calm, I didn't feel the need."

He briefly glanced around the small room, which was adorned with pictures of teeth and strange metal appliances and a large, rather ominous-looking leather chair. "So what's the story here?"

"She's a dentist. A dentist is like a Healer that—"

"—cleans teeth," Draco finished. "I know."

Ariadne looked a bit surprised by Draco's familiarity with dentistry, but she said nothing about it. "A Hogwarts student came home for the summer, had an appointment, ended up exhibiting uncontrolled magic in the dentist's chair. We can probably chalk it up to the stress of the moment."

"Stress?" repeated Draco in bewilderment, wondering what could possibly be stressful about teeth cleaning. Then he held up a hand to stop her from answering. "Never mind. If the woman's calm, this should take no time at all."

The dentist was sitting in a small chair in one corner of the room; and as he approached, she examined him appraisingly from head to toe. Then she asked, looking him straight in the eye, "Are you a sorcerer?"

Draco rarely chatted with the Muggles he encountered—it seemed like a waste of time, considering that they were about to forget him—but something about her demeanor and the directness of her question made him want to reply.

"Yes," he said simply. "I'm a wizard."

The woman did not seem surprised in the least by his answer. She nodded slowly, then said, "Dara's always been special."

"Dara?"

"My patient," she clarified. "The girl who broke my drill."

Draco did not understand half of what she was saying, but he gathered that Dara was the girl who'd performed the accidental magic. He looked around the room again, this time more leisurely, and wondered idly if Granger's parents had an office like this. Was this what her childhood had looked like? Sterile and bland and magic-less, with strange Muggle contraptions in every corner? Draco turned back towards the woman in the chair and wondered whether Granger's mother looked anything like her.

"So are you here to make me forget?" she asked.

He did not deny it. "It won't hurt."

The woman laughed brightly, as though he had said something hilarious. "That's what I tell my patients."

Suddenly unable to fight off his curiosity, he asked, "Why aren't you more surprised?"

"About what?"

"About the existence of magic."

"I've always thought it might exist," she replied, shrugging slightly. "I'm just upset that I won't be able to remember that I was right."

When he returned to the Ministry, he took a detour and stopped by Granger's office.

"I Obliviated a dentist today," he announced, and she looked up from her work. There were dark circles under her eyes, and he mused that she must have stayed late at the office instead of sleeping the night before.

"Really?" she asked, with obvious amusement, and he nodded. "And what, you were worried that they might be one of my parents?"

"No," he snorted dismissively, "I didn't think _that_."

"Then why'd you feel the need to tell me?"

The question gave him pause. It suddenly occurred to him that he did not know why he had felt the need to alert Granger about this development, and he blinked a few times before saying, "I'm not sure. It just… it reminded me of you."

She gave him a strange look. "I see," she said slowly. "Well, since you're here, fancy going for some lunch?"

* * *

They spent the afternoon in Diagon Alley together, eating ice cream and browsing stores: the bookstore, the apothecary, the antique shop. Wandering the streets with Hermione Granger, of all people, Draco felt—if for just a moment—as though the war were finally behind him.

It was the best day he'd had since fifth year.

* * *

She forced him to free his house elves, and he demanded that she clean his flat at least once in return.

"It's only fair," he insisted, "since you're the one who's forced me into leading an elf-less existence."

"Don't be such a baby," she chided. "That's what cleaning spells are for."

"I don't know any cleaning spells," he said, his voice starting to verge on a whine, "because I grew up in a house that was chock-full of elves!"

"And I grew up in a house that didn't use any spells," she returned swiftly, "but I still managed to learn them."

"We can't all be student of the year, Granger."

"You don't have to be student of the year to know how to clean your own house, Malfoy."

"So is this what you go around doing? Talking helpless wizards into getting rid of their elves, then abandoning them once you've gotten what you wanted out of them?"

"_Helpless?_" she repeated, bemused. "That isn't exactly a word I'd associate with you. Now, I won't clean your flat for you, but I _will_ teach you the cleaning spells you'll need to take care of it on your own."

They spent three hours on a dust-proofing charm (and another half-hour during which she attempted to actually guide his arm into doing the correct motion), before Draco collapsed onto his sofa and grumbled, "I'm going to have to move back into the Manor."

* * *

Draco was met with a sea of wide eyes when he showed up at Granger's birthday party.

It seemed as though everyone he had once considered a mortal enemy was there, and although he had initially been thrilled to receive this invitation into their inner circle, once he was in their presence, he found that he was not as thick-skinned as he might have hoped. Granger was nowhere to be found, though it appeared that the entirety of the Weasley family was in attendance; and from the dirty looks they were shooting in his direction, it could not have been clearer just how unwelcome he was. He lowered his eyes as he made his way through the crowd, expending a considerable amount of effort to stop himself from Disapparating on the spot.

"Draco Malfoy," said a soft, dreamy voice from his left, and he looked up to find Luna Lovegood watching him with watery blue eyes.

"Hello," he said awkwardly.

"Hermione told us you were coming," she continued in that same sing-song tone, sounding more like she were whispering the words to a lullaby than making an attempt at actual conversation. "I think it's nice that the two of you are friends now."

Draco had never spoken to Luna Lovegood before, and he didn't particularly want to start now. But he had the feeling that she might be the only person at the party willing to talk to him, apart from Granger, and he was not about to pass that up. "Thank you," he said, trying to sound as friendly as he could.

"Though you weren't very nice to her in school," she went on. "You weren't very nice to most people in school, were you?"

Draco went slack-jawed. Luna was still staring at him, and in spite of her biting words, both her voice and her expression were as innocently dreamy as ever. Was she mocking him? Was that head-in-the-clouds demeanor simply a front? He had no idea what to make of her.

Ignoring her question, he asked, "Do you know where Hermione is?"

"Oh, yes," she said, as childlike as ever. "She's with Ron."

"Right," said Draco politely, suppressing his irritation. "And where might that be?"

"I think they're in the garden outside. But you might not want to interrupt them. He's still in love with her, you know."

And with that, Luna Lovegood floated off—perhaps back into the crowd, perhaps all the way back to her home planet or wherever it was people like her were made. The experience left Draco more unwilling than ever to stay and brave the mass of strange, unfamiliar people, so he turned and headed straight for the garden.

He paused at the French doors when he saw Granger and Weasley standing outside, speaking so closely that he almost felt uncomfortable watching. Their expressions were deathly serious. When he reached out and cupped her face gently with one hand, the gesture looked intimate and familiar, as though he'd done it a million times before. She looked away from him with a pained expression, saying something that Draco could not hear, and then Weasley suddenly turned and started walking in his direction.

When he stepped back into the house and noticed Draco standing by the doors, his face began to grow red with anger. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, Malfoy?" he asked threateningly.

"I was looking for—"

"Were you _listening_ to our conversation?"

"I couldn't hear a word you said," snapped Draco, before yanking open the door and walking out into the garden, making sure to slam it loudly behind him as he went.

The sound startled Granger, and she whipped around to look back at him. Her arms were folded tightly against her chest, and he was shocked to see that her eyes were moist with tears.

"Draco," she exclaimed, and her hands darted to her face to erase the evidence of her emotion.

"Are you all right?"

She gave a small cough, then nodded. "I'm so glad you came."

"Did Weasley say something to upset—"

"I'm fine, Draco, really."

They were silent for a moment, and then he asked: "What happened between you two?"

She seemed surprised by the question, her eyes widening for a second before they flickered down to the ground. "We dated for a while," she said quietly. "After the war."

He could tell that she didn't want to talk about it, but his curiosity got the better of him. "And?"

"And it didn't work out." Then, still avoiding looking at him, she asked, "Should we go inside?"

Without waiting for his answer, she turned and walked away.

* * *

Granger began to look very tired—even more so than usual. She was thinner and paler than ever before, almost resembling a weak shadow of herself, and she developed a cough that would not seem to go away. Draco suggested repeatedly to her that she was over-working herself, that she ought to take it easy; but she was as stubborn as a mule when it came to these things and would not listen.

Then, one day, she did not show up to work at all.

Draco waited for a week, but when she still did not return, he asked her co-workers what had become of her and was told that she had fallen ill.

He went to St. Mungo's, flowers in hand, and found Potter standing watch outside her room. Potter looked coldly at him as he approached, not saying a word or moving a finger to greet him.

"How is she?" asked Draco, breaking the silence.

Potter glared at him. "What are you doing here?"

Draco knew as well as anyone how ugly their history was—how much they had once hated one another—but he felt strongly that, given the circumstances, this was neither the time nor the place to hash things out. He had spent months playing nice, tiptoeing around Potter and his little band of misfits, forcing himself into the role of "reformed wrongdoer" for their sake. And now they were in the hospital, of all places, and he was holding Granger's favorite flowers: wasn't that all the peace offering he needed? Angered by how unfairly Potter was treating him, he fumed, "What do you think? I came to see her. What are you, her bodyguard?"

"Maybe I am," said Potter, his voice strangely hollow even as it dripped with hatred. "Maybe I'm trying to keep you away from her because I don't trust you, Malfoy. Not for a second."

He had the urge to reach for his wand, but then he envisioned his father scolding him: "_What in Merlin's name were you thinking, fighting with Harry Potter in a hospital wing?_" and he steadied his hand. "So what's wrong with her?" he asked, as calmly as he could.

Potter looked at him for a moment as he leaned against the doorframe, appearing to decide whether to answer or not. Then he averted his gaze, gripping the doorframe so tightly his knuckles began to whiten. "She's dying."

Draco's mind went blank. "What?" he asked, all his anger suddenly forgotten.

"She's dying, Malfoy. Your aunt killed her."

Struggling to fit the pieces together, he took a staggering step backwards, as though he'd been punched in the gut. "What—you don't mean—_Bellatrix?_ But she's gone."

Potter shook his head, still looking furious. "She cursed her. That night we were at your house."

"What do you mean, that—"

And then he remembered.

He remembered her lying on the floor, writhing in pain, as his aunt sent hex after hex flying in her direction. Bellatrix had hovered above her, muttering madly—incantations mixed in with threats and swear words and insults—and if she had recited a deadly curse somewhere in between, Draco would never have known.

"But—" He tried to take a breath, but there was no air in his lungs. "But she's still alive."

"The curse was never meant to be instantaneous. It was meant to kill painfully, over time. Like the worst kind of torture." Potter inhaled sharply. "She's slowly wasting away. There's no way to counter-act it—the most we can do is stave it off."

"But if you know what the curse is, then surely—"

"You of all people should know just how powerful dark magic can be, Malfoy," interrupted Potter nastily, his green eyes flashing with venom. "You were there the night it happened."

His heart seemed to stop for a moment, and his limbs went cold. There was a curious tingling sensation in his fingers that seemed to be spreading higher and higher, up into his arms and his shoulders and then his neck—

And before it could reach his brain and kill him, Draco turned and fled, dropping the flowers on the hospital floor behind him as he ran.


	3. Chapter 3

For a week, Draco was literally sick with guilt.

He slept feverishly—when he was able to sleep at all—and he was plagued by nightmares that haunted him even he woke. He could not stop hearing Granger's screams, the wild cackling of his aunt, the utter finality of Potter's words. For the first time in his life, he botched an Obliviation. And when he heard, finally, that Granger had returned to work, he rushed to the toilet and retched violently, in a way that he hadn't since he'd received his assignment from Voldemort in his sixth year.

He avoided her scrupulously, but it was only a few days before she found him on her own.

"Can I come in?" she asked, poking her head through the door, and he jumped back in his chair as though he'd seen a ghost. He was too startled to reply, but she entered anyway, closing the door softly behind her.

There was a tense silence before she said, quietly, "I didn't want you to know."

He couldn't seem to think of anything to say—he couldn't even bring himself to _look_ at her—so he sat there, helpless and mute, as she went on.

"Harry told me you came by. I just wanted to say thank you—and thank you for the flowers, as well."

She was so calm, so utterly _calm_, that it was bewildering. As if there were nothing wrong, as if it were just another ordinary day at work, as if she had not just been in the hospital suffering from the curse that would kill her within months. There was something deeply unsettling about her composure. Draco thought that he would have preferred it if she were hysterical, if she were yelling and throwing things at the wall, if she were pleading with the universe to let her live.

"Aren't you angry?" he blurted out suddenly, and his voice was unexpectedly hoarse.

"Of course I'm angry," she replied, but her voice was still so warm—as if _she_ were the one comforting _him_—that the words were unconvincing.

"Don't you want to fight it?"

"Of course I do. But it's hopeless, Draco. They've tried everything." She offered him a small, bizarrely gracious smile. "There's no point in being angry anymore. So I might as well try not to be. We're all mortal."

He looked down and found that his hands were trembling in his lap. Trying desperately to keep them from shaking, he clasped them together, but it seemed that he could not control them. "How can you still believe in anything?" he asked weakly.

"How can you not?"

_I wouldn't believe in anything if I were you_, he thought. He suddenly felt the urge to vomit again. "Granger," he started, still staring down at his hands, "I didn't know. About that night—I didn't—"

"It's not your fault, Draco," she interrupted, and her voice was so infuriatingly kind that he could feel his nausea growing stronger. "I didn't know, either."

"No, but—I was there, and I didn't stop it."

"Draco," she said, as calmly as ever, "it isn't your fault."

He glanced up at her for a second, and all he could see was her twitching on his drawing room floor and crying out for mercy as the Cruciatus overtook her body. Flinching as if in pain, he cast his eyes downward again.

"I have to tell you something," he said, his voice so low he could barely hear it himself.

"If you're going to apologize for—"

"No," he said, cutting her off. "It's something else. The reason I became your—"

"Draco, what happened in the past is in the past."

"No, you don't understand," he insisted, but she shook her head.

"You don't have to say anything—"

"The reason I became your friend was—"

"Draco," she said firmly, "you don't have to say anything."

He stared at her then, finally seeing her as she was now: pale and sick and kind and strangely beautiful, like a withering statue of a saint; and for the first time in his life, he knew what it was to feel worthless.

"How can you forgive me?" he whispered, finally blurting out the question that he had been bottling up inside for months.

She smiled warmly at him. "Because you feel that way, Draco. You're a good person."

He had not known that it was possible to feel worse. "No," he said, shaking his head fervently. "I'm not."

"You are," she insisted. "You've changed."

"I did horrible things—"

"Draco," she said. She was no longer smiling. "You have to learn to forget."

* * *

He learned, through Potter, that she had broken up with Weasley when she found out that she was dying.

Draco half-expected her to break down at any second, to crumple under the burden of it all; but it seemed that there was no limit to her unshakeable poise. His new knowledge brought with it new eyes, and he watched her in amazement, awed by her elegant bearing in the face of certain death. She moved gracefully through her fading life, gliding serenely across the ice that was already shattering beneath her.

Suddenly, everything that had once seemed important to him felt inconsequential—miniscule, even—when compared to the massive weight that hung upon her every breath. And yet one would never have known it from her disposition. He urged her to stop working, afraid that she would tire herself out further, but she refused. Her work was too important for her to stop, she said, and if she had limited time left to make a difference—well, that was all the more reason to keep working as hard as she could.

He could not stop thinking about her. So he began researching dark magic, attempting to understand the curse with which she was afflicted and searching blindly for a cure—but he soon learned that, as Granger and Potter before her had told him, it was hopeless. There was, apparently, nothing to be done.

What was the point of magic if it could not do anything that really mattered?

Consumed with guilt, Draco decided that if there was nothing he could do about her death, he could still do something for her while she was alive. He asked her what it was she wanted most, but she replied simply and unhelpfully that what she really wanted was to see him make something of himself.

So after several nights spent lying awake, immersed in thought, he settled on the idea of creating a charitable fund for Muggle-born students: an organization built to help them with the considerable expenses that followed an unexpected acceptance to Hogwarts. There were the robes, the books, the cauldrons—not to mention the other school supplies that Draco could not think of at the moment, but which Muggle-borns were certain not to have. It was not an issue Draco cared much about—in fact, he couldn't have cared _less_ about the costs incurred by Muggle-born students—but it was something that he thought she would want.

"The wand," said Granger, when she heard his plan.

"Sorry?" he asked, glancing at her in confusion.

"The wand," she repeated wistfully. "That's something they'll all have to buy."

When she turned to look at him, her eyes were brimming with tears. "Thank you, Draco."

* * *

She deteriorated more quickly with each passing week, until finally, she could no longer hide her illness. Eventually, she looked so frail that he became afraid to touch her, for fear that she might shatter.

* * *

It was in a fit of desperation that Draco finally sought out his father, asking him if he knew how to reverse the spell.

Lucius stared at him in astonishment, seemingly unable to recognize the young wizard in front of him. But, in contrast to Draco's fears, he did not grow angry.

"There's nothing I can do," he said solemnly.

"But you know the spell?" asked Draco urgently, and his father nodded.

"The life will simply drain out of her until she dies," he said matter-of-factly, though his eyes were not without sympathy. "I'm sorry."

As the last remnants of his hope vanished before his eyes, all of Draco's apprehension suddenly melted away, leaving only fury and bitterness in its wake. He abruptly rose from his chair and glared down at his father.

"You're _sorry_?" he repeated angrily, as fire spread through his lungs. "You're sorry! It's _your_ fault she's going to die, and all you can say is that you're sorry? How many people died in the war because of you? Because of _us_? And what was it all for, Father? Was it so that you could turn around two years later and say, '_Sorry_, Draco, it was all a mistake?' Tell me, Father, _what was it for?_"

Lucius did not reply. When Draco turned to storm out of the Manor, he let him go quietly, without a word of protest.

* * *

He started seeing her less and less, until eventually, he stopped seeing her at all. At first, he thought they'd simply fallen out of touch because she was getting sicker, but then he realized that she was no longer returning his owls. He waited to hear from her and never did. So he lost himself in his work, taking on extra assignments, staying late at the office, even volunteering for the menial tasks no one else wanted.

There was a certain melancholy to the spell Draco performed each day—a darkness in the concept of taking away the memories of others. It felt, at times, as though he were robbing them of something, a part of their soul that they would never be able to access again. Some Obliviators couldn't stomach the job. They couldn't handle the stress: the glassy look in the Muggles' eyes as the spell overtook them, the blank stares they gave when they came to afterwards.

Draco was simultaneously guilty and envious, knowing that he was stealing their memories without their consent and yet wishing that he could Obliviate himself in the same way. He supposed that was his mortal punishment: that he was the only person whose memory he could not erase.

When he was eventually promoted to Head Obliviator, he thought that part of the reason he was so talented at this particular job was perhaps because he understood so well the need to forget.

* * *

"Draco?"

Slowly opening his eyes, he lifted his head an inch off the counter. "What?"

"Draco? _Merlin._"

Suddenly, two strong hands were on his arms, yanking him up into a sitting position. In his drunken stupor, he could barely make out a blurry vision of Blaise standing next to him.

"Zabini, is that you?"

"For the love of Merlin, Draco, how plastered are you?"

"Fuck off," he grumbled, dropping his head back onto the counter before him.

"I'm worried about you, mate. Your parents told me you quit your job."

"I didn't give a shit about that job."

"Didn't you just get promoted?"

"I told you—I didn't give a shit about that job!"

Blaise leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Listen, Draco, if this is about Granger—"

"I said, fuck off, Blaise."

"If this is about Granger—"

"What part of _fuck off_ are you not understanding?"

There was a pause, and then Blaise patted him encouragingly on the back. "All right, Draco. I'll leave you alone. But you should know that I'm here for you if you want to talk. Your parents are worried, Draco; they told me you're always at one pub or another—"

"I thought you were leaving," said Draco, as coldly as a wizard could while slurring his words.

Blaise gave a heavy sigh. "Forget her, mate," he said, before turning to take his leave.

* * *

When he saw her standing in front of his flat, for the briefest of moments, he was terrified that she was a ghost. She was certainly pale enough—she looked practically translucent as she moved slowly towards him—and through the alcohol-induced fog in his mind, she appeared almost surreal.

"How are you, Draco?" she asked gently.

"Why haven't you returned my owls?" he demanded, stumbling towards her.

"Blaise told me that he's worried about you," she went on, ignoring his question.

"You've been avoiding me," he said accusingly, pointing a shaky finger in her direction.

She took a deep breath. "I'm not going to be around forever, Draco. You have to get used to that."

He didn't want to get used to it. He wasn't like her—cold and calm and unfeeling. He knew now that he could never be that strong. "Maybe you're okay with this," he said, fighting to keep his voice from breaking, "maybe you're okay with the fact that you're dying, but I'm not."

"I've come to terms with it. I'll never be _okay_ with it, but I'm trying to come to terms with it, and—I want you to do the same."

Suddenly realizing that this might be the last time he ever saw her, he took a drunken step closer to her and said, very seriously, "I need to tell you something."

"I don't know if—"

"No, listen, Hermione. I'm in—"

"Draco, don't try turn your guilt into something it isn't."

"No, I'm in love w—"

"Please don't—"

"I'm in love with you."

Despite her efforts, the words were out of his mouth and tangible and _real_, floating in the air between them like water droplets that could be felt but were too small to be seen by the naked eye. It occurred to him, with devastating finality, that he had just ensured what he had been so afraid of: it was now absolutely certain that this would be the last time he ever saw her.

She did not tear her eyes away from his, but her gaze flickered for a moment. "I know."

And then she was gone.

* * *

Narcissa came to find him, and he loved his mother too much to turn her away. So they sat together on his sofa in silence, drinking the tea she had made; and when she finally told him that her father could not bear to face him, he did not have the heart to tell her what he was really thinking, which was: _Good, I'm glad._

"I don't want to see him," he said brusquely, and his mother seemed to wince in response.

"He feels very badly about the whole thing," she went on.

He stared down into his tea leaves and thought of Divination. "I have nothing to say to him."

They did not speak about Hermione, but she lingered in every inch of the room surrounding them, her spirit weighing down their words.

Before she left, Narcissa took his hands in hers and said imploringly, "You have to forgive him, Draco."

Draco shook his head. "I'm not like her," he replied. "I don't know where to start."

* * *

When Harry called him from St. Mungo's to tell him that she was going, Draco's first question was:

"Did she ask for me?"

The reply Harry gave was: "She wants to see you, even if she doesn't realize it."

When he entered the stark hospital room (this time with no flowers in hand; there hadn't been time), he bit back his horror at the way she looked—grey skin pulled taut over bones, like seeing a skeleton that had just barely been brought back to life. She held a hand out to him, and he took it. It was bony and cold, as though she were already no longer living, and he was afraid of breaking it.

"I didn't want you to see me like this."

He had never held her hand before. An empty longing for all the time he had wasted filled his chest, and he suddenly felt irrationally angry with her. "Why did you keep pushing me away?" he asked, and she closed her eyes as if to rest.

"I wanted to make things easier on you," she said.

"Bullshit."

"And," she admitted, "I was scared."

He sat by her and watched her while she slept, wondering how he had never noticed how beautiful she was before, when she was healthy. Even now, when she was only a fraction of her former self, there was a graceful dignity that flowed through her veins, through her every pore. He wished, too late, that he had paid more attention.

When visiting hours ended, he woke her gently and whispered, "I'll come back first thing tomorrow."

"Don't," she said quietly. "I'm tired."

Draco neither agreed nor disagreed. He rose from his chair and started to leave, but before he could reach the door, she called after him.

He turned to look at her. Her eyes were fixed on him—those eyes that had never been small, but which now, in an otherwise emaciated face, appeared unnaturally large. The effect was striking: her eyes were large and dark and blazing with something akin to fire, and there was comfort in the knowledge that she had not yet lost her strength.

"You're such a good person, Draco," she said, her voice weak even as her eyes burned brightly. "There's so much good in you. I hope you know that."

_No, there isn't_, he wanted to tell her. _It was all you, from the very beginning; and when you go, you'll take it with you._

But he choked and said nothing as he left her.

* * *

He went to a Muggle park that he had once visited on an Obliviation case and sat on a bench, watching the Muggle children play.

A little girl in a frilly pink dress ran up to him, pointing some sort of pink baton at him. "_Abracadabra!_" she said with a flourish, and he offered her as much of a smile as he could muster.

"I'm a witch," she announced dramatically. "I've cast a spell on you."

It was then that he recognized the pink stick in her hand—the one with a sparkly gold star on the end of it—as a toy wand. Finally understanding that whatever gibberish phrase she had spoken had been meant as an incantation, he gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

"_Abracadabra!_" she repeated, for good measure.

"I know someone just like you," said Draco, leaning forward and speaking softly. "She was a little girl who grew up to have a magic wand. And she always used it for good."

The girl looked at him appraisingly. "So you believe me?" she asked.

"I believe," he replied.

He watched the sun set, orange and glowing and bright up until the second it disappeared behind the horizon. All the children had left the playground, and still he remained, staring after the sun even when it was long gone.

The streetlamps flickered on one by one, even though it was still light out; and as the dusky pink of twilight began to wash over him, he suddenly felt very small. No amount of magic could keep the day from passing into the next. And still he stayed, breathing in the cool, clean air of evening, until at last it was only him and the trees and the stars.

* * *

**the end**


End file.
